You sit down and for all intents

you play my chords the way they’re meant,

but I’m not sure, it just sounds hollow,

you play a tune that I can’t follow.

It seems to me upon inspection,

your finger’s movement,

placing and inflection,

the way they hover over keys,

only roughly where they need,

and now no longer in your thrall,

that you’re not playing me at all.

All this time I’ve loved your talent,

your style and grace,

your gaited ballad.

I’ve admired your composition,

your fleeting touch

and sharp precision.

But it was merely artifice.

Performance true but not a fact.

A simple farce, a way to lure me,

a little act, a tune in your key.

So now your lie has come unthreaded,

the gorgon gaze has been beheaded.

I see me how you saw me then,

the way I think you see all men,

as instruments or simple tools,

you play us so we play the fool,

but it stops here because now I know,

I was just your piano.

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